Fleeting Thoughts
by rainbowrider1290
Summary: She questions why she remains so loyal to him. He wonders why he numbs the pain with destruction. They both ponder on why they let their minds wander to where they shouldn't. Here is a small reminder of one of the most under-addressed stories of VLD.


A tragedy overlooked by most…

* * *

She often wondered why she was so loyal to the emperor, but always fleeting thoughts that questioned, and strayed from the firm mindset she'd kept, before ten thousand years of habit rose up and quickly overshadowed any doubts she had. Almost like she was denying herself something. Protecting herself from the mess that would come if she allowed those thoughts to grow. Yes, that _must_ be it.

Haggar was many things, but she was not stupid. She knew the empire wouldn't survive were it not for her. However, the fact that she knew it does not mean she acknowledged it. Thoughts like these were discarded alongside the ones that doubted her loyalty to Zarkon.

On the days her mind wandered, or more so, when she briefly let it, she asked why she let herself be put down by such a tyrant, for she knew quite well this is what Zarkon was, when she wouldn't even need the loyalty of his officials to succeed in a coup. Why she let herself be humiliated and ignored, why she did his dirty work, or why she showed such reverence, when she was so much more powerful. This does not mean that she wanted to be sole empress, oh _no,_ Haggar knew what she wanted, but during those short moments in which her loyalties came into question, she asked herself _why._

Then he fell.

A deadly blow from five inexperienced pilots only served to further question her respect towards him. His temporary indisposition pushed her into a cycle of questioning and suppressing, questioning and suppressing. Wondering why she couldn't simply leave him, letting his quintessence supply run dry. He was at her mercy, and this would mark the first time, according to her, he'd be forced to realize it despite not being the first of many. Never to be acknowledged, of course.

It was strange. Every logical nerve impulse was compelling her to let him die, for she knew that the empire could only stand without a ruler for so long. Progress is crucial, especially now. Thinking it through, Zarkon's death would, if anything, make them stronger. They would have a martyr, which would further cement the loyalty of their subjects when they saw that their emperor was indeed willing to die for their - _his -_ empire…

Yet it was like every drop of quintessence, _her own_ quintessence _,_ that is, connected her to him, suggesting a plan that would never work involving his memories to bring him back, urging her to do everything in her power to keep him breathing.

She… _felt_ … for him.

Ridiculous since sentiment had never been a large part of her progressive, driven character, but instead of knowing this time, she felt like their quintessence was not separate. Like she'd always had the underlying knowledge, but feeling it raised this information from the depths in which it was buried.

So, against what she _knew_ to be logical, she did what she _felt_ was sound.

A decision she cursed, and cursed, and cursed again when she found a part of herself that had been locked away, an absence which made everything so much easier.

But she _remembers_ now.

She remembers why her quintessence so often didn't seem like her own. She remembers why she suppressed and dismissed the moments of disloyalty without a second thought. She remembers why she didn't question her life. She had become so addicted to _knowing,_ that when a source of energy that was not hers to take allowed her that, she paid a price in her distraction that closed off an integral part of her from _herself._

Honerva is many things, but she is not stupid. She knows everything is going to change for her, while not changing for anyone else. She _cannot_ let it. She knows she can't.

But she feels she wishes it were not so. So she continues to question and suppress, question and suppress, question and suppress.

* * *

He'd started out as the hero of his own story, but he didn't realize until later that he'd slowly become the villain.

All he wanted to do was save the only person who dared to see him as a hero.

He didn't want her to forget.

He didn't want to forget.

He didn't want to be forgotten.

But he didn't want to remember.

He let himself forget because remembering a time long ago counted as a fleeting thought, dismissed with the rest. A time in which terms of endearment from her were replaced with cold titles of allegiance. A time in which every _dearest_ , every _my love,_ was replaced with _sire,_ and _my lord._

He saw through her blue skin, but he couldn't ignore the red lines trailing down her face like tears of the blood he spilled. He wasn't stupid. He blamed Alfor only because he couldn't bear to blame himself. When did her markings get so long?

When one lives for ten thousand years with nothing to push back, life feels monotonous. _Mundane_ regardless of the countless worlds under his control and the pain subtly underneath because it all reminds him of the time before. Despite being hungry for the rushing power within him, strengthening his own quintessence, making him feel more _alive,_ he looked upon the idea of death with indifference.

His own moments of questioning were quickly suppressed by his sense of duty, of course. No empire known to rule the galaxies with an iron fist could have a weak ruler. He must banish these thoughts if he was to keep their - _his -_ empire alive.

On the days his mind wandered, or more so, on the days he let it for a while longer, he wondered _why_. Why did he still cling onto a face that refused to recognize him? Why did he pretend to see signs of her memories returning when there were none? Why did he still feel so raw? He wondered and suppressed, wondered and suppressed.

Then he fell.

Trapped within his own mind, he witnessed the war he'd caused. Not between the galaxies, but within himself. But now that he was forced to acknowledge it, there was less he felt, and more he knew. He knew she would find him. A certainty beyond any instincts he couldn't quite explain. A connection present just beneath his pain that he never quite reached. Almost like an answer to his wandering thoughts.

This was of course, it _must_ be, merely another fleeting thought. _Absurd!_ Said the familiar voice of a stranger. How would she find him if he could never bring himself to say her name out loud?

When he wakes, there's something different about her. He _knows it._ A flicker of recognition here and there, a pull in his chest that wasn't there before. He wants to say something, but his mask of indifference overshadows, filling his head with things he feels are true but knows aren't. She doesn't acknowledge it, but she knows when he lies.

He cannot let things change. He fears he can't.

But he knows he wishes it were not so. So he continues to wonder and suppress, wonder and suppress, wonder and suppress.

* * *

She sees him replace more and more of himself with metal and foreign energy as she picks up the pieces that were originally hers in parallel, fighting to reclaim herself as he loses himself. She feels the guilt of being his enabler.

He sees her indifference as the very same destructive energy numbs his pain when it gets too strong. He can't read her anymore, and according to him, she doesn't want to be read. He knows he can be doing more.

Despite their fleeting thoughts, questions, wandering moments, the ones that belong to them, the ones that tie them together despite their denial to avoid losing themselves, the ones that present hope as a remote possibility, despite all these, they continue to ponder and suppress, ponder and suppress, ponder and suppress.


End file.
